Knots
by CoryphaeusRex
Summary: There had only been one bed. That had been the third problem. DustfingerxFarid, Oneshot, set between Inkheart and Inkspell. M for a reason, peeps.


**Author's Notes & Disclaimer:** I don't own Inkheart, although I have entertained idle fantasies of kidnapping Dustfinger from time to time. This is a little fic inspired by a line from the movie, although it's set in the gap between Inkheart and Inkspell, making it distinctly incompatible with the movie ending. Oh well. Can't have it all. This is rated M for reasons of slash, sexual situations, light bondage, and possibly age of consent issues (Farid is in an indeterminate age somewhere between fifteen and... oh, eighteen?). In case you didn't get it from the summary, this is Dustfinger/Farid, with strong hints of Dustfinger/Black Prince. Read, review, and above all, enjoy.

(o.o)

"You're really quite good at that."

It had been a stupid thing to say at the time, an awkward ice breaker which seemed to have made Dustfinger an unwanted friend.

Well, mostly unwanted.

He rubbed his wrists ruefully, wincing as the heavy embroidered fabric shifted position on his skin. It had left a pattern on his forearms, all twirling vines and artistically outlined leaves, and he studied it through his hair. He tugged, experimentally, but Farid really _was_ good at knots, and it didn't budge an inch. Dustfinger wondered where he'd learnt the skill.

He was alone for now, in the small room he and the boy had appropriated for the night. The owners were definitely away, there was a note for the milkman and everything, and it had taken Farid all of four seconds to pick the lock. Then one small burnt fuse to disable the burglar alarm and they were home free.

There had only been one bed. That had been the third problem.

The second problem was Farid's aforementioned skill with knots. Dustfinger had considered burning the ties that held him, but fire didn't obey him in this world as it did in the book, and if he burned himself he wasn't putting his wrists in the care of Farid. He'd end up tied to something far more awkward than a bedpost, he was sure.

The first problem, the source of all current issues, was the looks Farid had been giving him since the performance in the piazza. It was something like hero-worship, like and yet not like at all. Dustfinger had seen looks like that before, in the eyes of some of the impressionable girls in the Laughing Prince's court. God, to be young again, and have all the fun emotions running around inside, instead of this bone-deep weariness.

Maybe that was why he'd let Farid talk him into this. Admittedly, there hadn't been much talking, but there had been just enough.

The boy had come at him from an angle Dustfinger had not exactly been expecting – all bronzed skin and sultry poses, shirt undone to the navel, hip jutting out provocatively, the works. He'd almost laughed, but then Farid had reached out a finger and snapped the electric light off, and suddenly all that youthful posturing and deliberate pouting had taken on a far more alluring tone. His dark hair formed a sort of anti-halo around his head, and the silvery light reflecting from his features drew his attention, in the centre of that pool of darkness.

Farid approached, a series of sinuous transitions from pose to pose, like someone who'd never seen a tiger but was trying to move like one. Dustfinger had never seen a tiger either, not _really_, in the wild and everything. He was staring.

And then there was heat.

"You look cold," Farid said, breath warm on Dustfinger's neck as his palms met with the man's skin. Goosebumps rose, involuntarily, but the glow from Farid's hands was just on the right side of comfortable, and he forced himself to relax. It was all going to be a game, wasn't it, the boy playing around again. Any minute he was going to see that bright grin and Farid was going to jump away and laugh loudly at having messed with Dustfinger's mind.

_Don't touch him, you'll only encourage him_.

"Did you enjoy your shower?" Farid asked, and the patches of heat moved up Dustfinger's torso, leaving two trails of cold in their wake.

_No_. Dustfinger had been perfectly happy to sleep in his clothes, he'd smelled worse in his time, but Farid had glanced pointedly at the shower and had abducted Dustfinger's clothes to utilise the washing machine downstairs. He was amazed he hadn't seen through the ploy before – Farid had no qualms about smelling like a midden, nor about tolerating similar scents from his travelling companion.

He was glad he'd rescued his trousers before they'd been dried. Sure, he was clammy from the waist down, but it was an improvement on having to face Farid dressed only in a towel.

Farid wasn't waiting for an answer. As his hands passed Dustfinger's collarbone, the heat disappeared. Dustfinger saw Farid's fingers looming near his eye, and caught the hand just as the boy's fingertips connected with the scars left by Basta's knife.

"Don't do that," he said. Firm enough that Farid would know he was serious. The boy lowered his hand, without argument.

There was a hiss, and Dustfinger almost jumped out of his skin. Farid's left hand rested lightly on the waistband of his damp trousers, and the heat had come back on, evaporating most of the water in an instant. He was impressed, in spite of the situation. It normally took years to produce that kind of subtle effect with fire, and that was in the book.

"There," Farid said, catching his reluctant glance and holding it. "Now you are more comfortable."

Their noses were practically touching, and Dustfinger could feel Farid's breath on his own lips as the boy spoke. His mouth felt dry, but he knew to moisten his lips would only encourage Farid, and that wasn't what he wanted at all. He'd learned his lesson about encouraging unwanted affection a long time ago, of course he had. Over and over again, if memory served.

_Don't touch him..._

He couldn't help himself. It was like gravity, the way his hands moved to Farid's almost girlish waist. At the same moment, the boy kissed him, lightly, delicately, soft skin brushing against his own chapped lips.

The door to the house shut with a bang, and Dustfinger woke from his reverie, to the sound of Farid swearing quietly at the offending article. His shoulders had gone to sleep, and he could barely feel his fingertips. He considered calling out, but then that would just add to the suspicions of the neighbours, and if someone called the police this was going to be a _hell_ of an awkward situation.

_Yes, officer, I'm aware I'm tied to this bed... no, we aren't the owners of this property... oh, my associate? He's... eighteen._

Awkward compounded upon awkward.

It had only been a kiss, and Dustfinger had considered this to still be within the line where it could be a game, where Farid could take three steps back and they could both forget about it after Farid had laughed himself silly at the look on Dustfinger's face.

No laughter was forthcoming.

Farid's hands met with Dustfinger's face again, and the man flinched away from the kiss, grabbing the boy's wrists and pushing them until they hit the front of Farid's chest. The boy kept his balance.

"I told you not to do that."

Farid shrugged, and tried to wrench his wrist from Dustfinger's grip, but the man held on.

"Don't make me tell you again," Dustfinger said, and let go.

"Funny thing to get upset about," Farid looked up at him, with that deliberately smouldering gaze that Dustfinger had seen the many rehearsal stages of, "considering."

Dustfinger stepped back and sat down heavily on the bed, leaving Farid standing leaning alluringly into thin air, wasting all that carefully choreographed effort on a lingering aura alone.

He saw Farid's shadow looming across him, blocking that dim light from outside, and made a gesture as if to waft the boy away.

Farid's left hand came carefully to lift his chin, staying on the opposite side to his scars so as to avoid being grabbed again.

"You don't mind this," he said, and kissed Dustfinger again.

"That's different," Dustfinger said, after Farid had let him go. It seemed to have taken longer this time.

"Or this." Farid traced the muscles in Dustfinger's chest with a forefinger.

"That's different too."

"What about..." Farid began, and finished the question by laying one brown hand on Dustfinger's thigh, and sliding along, almost hesitantly, before resting on the man's crotch.

This couldn't be a game any more. There was no way in any conceivable universe where Farid could back away from this with _that_ grin and treat it as a joke. Dustfinger gently lifted the boy's hand away, depositing it on the duvet next to him.

"Different... in a different way," he said carefully.

Farid was blushing, the darkness in the room hiding it moderately well but not well enough.

"In a good way or a bad way?" he asked, the sultry, seductive voice he was trying to use broken slightly by nerves.

Dustfinger smiled, lopsidedly, and raised a hand to the boy's face, running a rough, calloused thumb over Farid's lower lip.

"Just different."

Farid brushed his hand aside, and kissed him again, catching Dustfinger's lip between his teeth in his enthusiasm. The fire-dancer responded, gently at first, his hands taking hold of Farid's waist again, marvelling at the soft, near-feminine curves of the boy's hip-bones. Farid was thrown slightly off-balance, and his hands came up to rest on Dustfinger's shoulders.

They were teetering on the edge of falling, Farid having misjudged his own centre of gravity and Dustfinger now sliding his hands underneath the boy's shirt, up his back, causing him to shiver and lean forward even more.

There was an awkward moment as Farid struggled to get his knees onto the bed. Dustfinger lay back, pulling the boy atop him. Farid laughed in spite of himself, that trademark grin softened and muted by the intimacy of the situation. His knees were on either side of Dustfinger's stomach and his hands would have been pinning the man to the bed, had he been stronger or heavier.

Dustfinger pulled Farid's face down to his, slipping his tongue between the boy's lips in a deep kiss. Farid seemed almost nervous to have the situation taken out of his dubious control, and his hands ran over Dustfinger's chest possessively. Dustfinger's hand slid down, slightly under the waistband of Farid's grubby jeans, and ran along, light and teasing.

"You've done this before," Farid said, pulling away.

"Does that really surprise you?" Dustfinger asked, toying with the one button that was holding Farid's shirt together. "If you recall, I do have daughters, and they didn't exactly come from the stork."

Farid giggled nervously, blushed again.

"No, I mean... you know."

"Does _that_ surprise you?" Dustfinger flicked the button open with his thumbnail.

"A little."

"Then I'll have to do better at distracting your attention," he smiled and pulled the boy back down for another invasive kiss.

This time Farid put more effort into pinning him, holding his wrists down above his head, shuffling a little higher on Dustfinger's body. The fire-dancer gave into the grip without complaint, tilting his head and licking a trail up Farid's bare stomach. The boy shivered, but Dustfinger had already made his mistake – he'd taken his eyes off Farid's hands.

Damn the boy was quick. He'd pulled a piece of silk, a remnant from his book, from his pockets and tied Dustfinger's wrists together in no time at all. Dustfinger hadn't even felt it until Farid had pulled the knot tight, and the realisation came that it was no longer warm hands pinning his wrists together but material, too tight to be easily thrown off.

Farid scrambled away from Dustfinger, hooked a thumb through the loop, and easily pulled the unresisting man further up the bed, rucking up the covers in his wake. With a few more deft knots that Dustfinger couldn't see, he was tethered securely to the bedpost. The boy curled up alongside him, one leg thrown possessively over his body.

"Now," Farid said, sliding his hand down Dustfinger's chest to the battered belt holding his overlarge trousers on, "are you going to tell me who you've done this with before?"

Dustfinger's jaw tightened momentarily.

"Why would I do that?" he nudged Farid's head with his elbow, and the boy slid closer, until his head was nestling by Dustfinger's collarbone. "It doesn't matter. Besides, I've never done _this_ before."

He rattled his nails against the metal post he was tied to.

Farid kissed the spot on Dustfinger's neck where his pulse beat, quick and loud. Then he sighed and sat up.

"I'll be back later," he said, and left. Dustfinger blew his hair out of his eyes and grimaced at the ceiling. He knew it would be counterproductive to call after Farid. Best to work on these knots, in silence, until the boy took it into his head to come back.

It had so far been two hours, and he'd heard Farid leave and come back again, but there had been no footfalls on the stairs, just rummaging which Dustfinger assumed to have come from the kitchen. The knots had held fast, much to his annoyance. The pins and needles he was going to have when he got out of here were going to be _agonising_.

He shifted on the bed, and heard, as well as the shifting of springs, a soft noise which didn't seem to have come from inside the room. He froze, holding his breath, and the noise came again. And again. And again.

_You're going to have to sneak better than that if you want to surprise me._

There was a slightly louder thump, definitely from right outside the bedroom door, and it swung open with a sharp creak. Farid wandered in, an amiable expression on his face and a bottle of wine in his hand. It was open, but appeared quite full. He approached the bed and sat down next to Dustfinger's prone body, putting the bottle on the bedside table.

"I got your clothes in," he said, absently. "They weren't dry but I cheated."

"My arms have gone dead, you know."

"That tends to happen." Farid poured some of the wine into a glass that probably was more usually used for water. He dipped his fingers in, and brushed them across Dustfinger's lips. The wine was sour, and probably would have benefited from having posh wine-snob things done to it, but then, this wasn't about the wine. Dustfinger's tongue darted out and licked at Farid's fingertips. He saw the suppressed shiver he got in return.

"So are you going to untie me?"

"Are you going to tell me your deep dark secret?" Farid answered, dipping his fingers in the wine again and wetting Dustfinger's lips. He shuffled around on the bed until he was lying beside the fire-dancer, his head resting on his hand. He put the glass on Dustfinger's stomach, and watched as he flinched away from the cold.

Dustfinger didn't answer him. Picking the glass up, Farid took a mouthful, pulled a face, and set it back down, on the same spot.

"I could sleep here, you know. And leave you like that. It'd be easy."

Dustfinger shrugged, but the motion set off a painful thrum in the muscles of his blood-starved upper arms, and he grimaced.

"All right."

Farid smiled, and settled himself a little closer.

"He was an old friend of mine. I haven't seen him since I left the book. We were... close."

"This close?" Farid asked, his arm inching over Dustfinger's stomach.

_And closer_. Sweat and skin and all the awkwardness gone in the heat of the moment. There had been dancing and drinking and the Motley Folk were tolerant of almost everything so they'd gotten away with it, it had just been a laugh and a jape until they'd staggered into the caravan, in each other's arms. Dustfinger remembered how pale his skin had looked, almost marble white against the Prince's ebony-dark skin, but that was the kind of thing memory picked up on through the wine and the dizziness.

"Yes. It was a long time ago, and a long way away. It doesn't matter."

Farid knocked the wine back in one, shook his head and tossed the glass over his shoulder. It thudded on the carpet but didn't break. Dustfinger breathed a sigh of relief – if the owners didn't immediately know their place had been broken into, they wouldn't immediately call the police, and he and Farid could be a long way away by the time they figured it out.

He had been so preoccupied with the glass that it came as a bit of a shock to find Farid on top of him, pulling his face round for a kiss. The first taste was of the disgusting wine, but Dustfinger had drunk worse, and besides, once you got past the alcohol on his breath, the boy tasted quite pleasant.

He felt Farid's fingers on his face, and cursed under his breath, jerking his head to one side and breaking the kiss.

"How many times?" he snarled, but Farid's face was calm, with a smile bobbing under the surface.

The boy made a shushing noise, and traced the three scars with the utmost care. Then he leaned over, and kissed each of them in turn. Dustfinger's eyes closed, and he could feel Farid smile against his skin.

With a few deft motions the boy unfastened the knots that had held Dustfinger in place for the past few hours. The man groaned as his cramped muscles were allowed to move, and he would have been happy to spend a number of minutes just getting them working satisfactorily. But there was Farid, and there were certain things Dustfinger would never turn down.

Feeling as though he was moving underwater, with his hands wrapped in mittens, he took hold of Farid's shoulders, pulling the boy to him and crushing their lips together. His numb fingers buried in Farid's hair, the knots stopping him from romantically running his fingers through it.

_He had hair like yours_.

He thought about saying it, but there were stupid things to say at these moments, and then there was _that_, the stupidest of all things to say. Instead, he detached himself from Farid's dark hair, disengaging the thoughts at the same time, and slid his hands to the boy's shoulders, pushing his shirt away from his body.

Farid shrugged the shirt off eagerly, dropping it somewhere on the floor.

Dustfinger's hands ran down Farid's lithe body, over those beautifully curving hip bones and to his thighs. With a couple of gently persuasive nudges, he had Farid astride him, bodies pressed together, and now it was Dustfinger who was tilting his chin upwards for a kiss.

He rubbed his hands together behind Farid's back, stopping just before the glow erupted into sparks. Palms now hot, he traced the sinuous lines of the boy's shoulderblades, up to that tangled hair, and as he wound his fingers into it, he pulled.

Farid gasped as Dustfinger left a trail of brief, light kisses up his neck, and then back down again, lingering over the throbbing pulse point that quickened beneath his tongue. His teeth grazed Farid's soft skin, and he was rewarded with a whimper. Farid wriggled, and Dustfinger let him go, allowing himself to be pushed down onto the mattress again.

"You'll forgive me if I'm unwilling to put my hands above my head again," he laughed, hands stealing to Farid's hips and positioning him in a more comfortable place. Farid grinned down at him and kissed him.

Dustfinger was getting carried away with these kisses. They carried the taste of youth and all those lost times that he'd never live again, and he wanted to hold onto them selfishly, crush them close to his chest and never let them go. The fact that it hadn't progressed past kisses yet was testament to the fact.

_Yet._

It was Farid who made the first move past kisses. He flicked Dustfinger's belt open with the dexterity he'd previously used to restrain the man, and slipped his thin hands between fabric and skin, not too far. Dustfinger remembered that from his youth too. Just exploring. Not committing yourself too much to an action, just testing how it would feel to go those few inches beyond the permitted. Inside a girl's blouse. Under a boy's belt. A heady out-of-bounds feeling.

He shifted a little, allowing Farid to slip his hands in further, commit to the action, take it a little further. After a moment of hesitation, he did so. Dustfinger made a satisfied noise in the back of his throat, and his own hands, recovering sensation and skill, began to unfasten Farid's belt.

Farid removed his hands from the front of Dustfinger's jeans, and went to completely rid himself of his own, but Dustfinger took hold of his wrists and smiled as he kissed the boy's knuckles.

"Come here," he said, motioning that Farid should lie beside him. The boy obeyed, and Dustfinger ran a hand down his side, with a thoughtful sigh. His fingertips ran around the inside of Farid's waistband, just exploring, feeling that supple skin like velvet under his touch. His hand slid lower, pulling the jeans away from the wearer's skin, and he heard the zip slide down of its own accord. Underwear hadn't been included in Elinor's less-than-pragmatic shopping list, and Farid had been going commando for a while.

As the jeans came down over Farid's hips, Dustfinger took hold of the boy's chin and pulled him in for another of those youthful kisses that tasted of summer. He broke the kiss, and brought his hand to his face. Eyes fixed on Farid, he deliberately licked his own palm and returned his hand to its intended target.

Farid seemed to start mid-mantra, words which had been bubbling in his mind for a while boiling over into verbal speech at last, as Dustfinger worked him over, with an expert's touch made amateur by years of disuse. Farid didn't care; he leaned closer to Dustfinger, burying his face in the fire dancer's neck, his prayers becoming kisses by their proximity to skin. His hands fumbled with Dustfinger's jeans, getting them open only by luck, and slipping his hands inside.

Dustfinger was made of stronger stuff than his companion, and Farid came first, messily, with a little noise that was half whimper and half groan. His hands, working at Dustfinger, faltered, and the man took over, finishing himself off, as Farid kissed him, over and over again, hazy and tired.

Dustfinger struggled with the duvet for a few moments, before pulling both sides in and wrapping the pair of them in a rough cocoon of softness and warmth. As he drifted off to sleep, he was thinking of another boy he'd fallen asleep with, sticky and tired and satisfied. He slept with his lips pressed to Farid's forehead, breathing in the scent of the boy, imagining another, a world away.


End file.
